How Villainous
by waspinthelotus
Summary: SLASH. Dub-con. Orange Menace/Kick-Ass. Post-Movie. Chris still has an unhealthy, sadistic obsession with Kick-Ass, and hatches a clever plan to "possess" the intrepid superhero... self-deprication, sadomasochism, etc...
1. Naivety or Masochism?

**Title:** How Villainous...

**Summary**: Post-Movie. Red Mist is now Orange Menace, and he still has an unhealthy sadistic obsession with Kick-Ass. When Kick-Ass comes out of retirement he comes up with a clever plan to kidnap and "possess" the intrepid super-hero. Self-Deprication, Sadomasochism, and filthy-mouthed perversity occurs.

**Rating**: NC-17 for graphic violence and slash. Dub-con, fighting, and blowjobs.

**Pairings**: Christopher D'Amico (Orange Menace)/Kick-Ass

**Disclaimer**: I don't own the rights to the characters, comic or movie or otherwise ;)

Christopher, or Orange Menace as he liked to think of himself these days (he was, after all, currently sporting the black cape, and the smears of kohl across the eyes, but the mask was off—he didn't feel the need to wear it on the couch, you see), well, he was getting quite uncomfortable. It had something to do with the sounds Kick-Ass was making every time a baton crashed across his kneecap, or a fist struck him in the face. He was watching. Re-watching, more specifically: the recording of that moment, before his father died, before the implosion of the D'amico empire, played out in grainy flashes from a computer screen. But he wasn't thinking of the past, his father's ghost or bundles of cash, or anything else for that matter. He was _listening, _instead, to the violent crash of metal on bone.

His fist tightened across his lap. The vinyl pants that completed his hero get-up was tight around the groin, where it was unbearably hot, and growing hotter as he heard those hitched broken cries.

It was torture. _You're sick. You're some kind of sadist, _he thought to himself. Still he could not stop watching it. Over. And Over.

What does the most powerful 18-year-old boy in the world do when we wants something or, in this case, _someone_?

Why, he gets what he wants.

It was six months later when he read, in a dismal state of shock, the blaring black font on the New York Times which read: _Kick-Ass Returns_ _From Retirement_. He compared that immaculate, replayed memory to the monochrome image on the paper before him; and recognized wet hero's eyes and a pouty confident mouth. He hated the way that costume brought out his mouth. Didn't hate it. Loved it. Same thing.

He bit into an orange and let the bitter taste of it swell in his mouth.

_Was it simple naivety? Or is he really that stupid? Maybe his nerves are so dead, maybe he didn't feel that beating at all- maybe he doesn't value his own life_. Christopher winced, rubbing his stinging lips. _Or maybe…_ he mused, _maybe he likes it. Maybe he likes getting his ass kicked_.


	2. Chains Are Good Too

The plan hatched, as all of Chris D'Amico's plans tended to hatch, in a brutal and disorganized fashion, like some marvelous creature rising from the muck—he was his father's son, but only partly so. This was not business, rather, but personal. It started with a few influential housecalls to police chiefs, in which Chris had the pleasure of holding a semiautomatic weapon against the shocked donut-shaped mouths of federal flunkies. He knew he couldn't play it like he had last time, posing as a sidekick, even with the new name and get-up—surely Kick-Ass wouldn't trust any communication from other super heroes, despite the burgeoning ranks in New York. He had to pull the strings that were allotted to him, like a true comic book villain. Lucky for Chris he had the entire NYPD as pawns, and they begged like dogs, and they did as they were told.

When the cops brought him into the abandoned basement of a condemned warehouse with a bag over his head, Kick-Ass figured he was in more trouble than a simple trespassing arrest. His heart was pounding in his chest as he breathed against the black fabric serving as a blindfold and a suffocation risk. He tried not to think about how fucking retarded he had been for coming out of retirement; dumb nerves, "can't change who you are" bullshit. He tried not to think of burning alive like Big Daddy, of dying in other numerously imaginative ways. Rough hands put him against the wall and took his handcuffed wrists and attached them to, well, something, something hanging above his head that sounded like chains. No use of his arms. Not good. His feet barely touched the ground. He felt a cold cement wall at his back through the thin lycra of his bodysuit. The shuffle of leather shoes; policemen dispersing, going home to their tasteless meals and vacant wives. Were they leaving him? Alone, here?

What followed was a solid block of silence. At first Kick-Ass stood there, hanging by his arms, and tried desperately to hear _something_, any little sound that would denote another human being, or whatever it was that awaited him in that impenetrable darkness which he panted against, frightened but stubborn, determined to see this through to whatever violent end.

But minutes passed, and no sound came. He began to struggle.

The chains rattled against his cuffs. He swung a little bit, jerking his head back and forth to try to shake off the leather bag that stifled him.

In the shadow, Orange Menace, Chris, whatever, was the voyeur. He watched him pull at his arms, his body tensing away from the bonds. He saw the cords in his neck straining, the bag finally slipping loose and head shaking, the bag falling to the floor. What a vision: a pale, frightened pair of eyes and gasping mouth cut into sections by a teal mask. He saw watering eyes blinking at the lack of light, mouth agape with blood curling in the corner of his mouth.

_I told them not to rough him up_. _Shitheads. _Christopher fumed. Afterall, Kick-Ass was not theirs to destroy. He was _his_. That couldn't have been clearer.

He watched for a moment longer, the arms straining, the neck craning back to help the face stare with wide, worried eyes at the bonds that held him so securely.

"You ain't goin' no-where." Chris broke the silence and saw Kick-Ass staggering back, rattling those chains and backing himself into the wall.

"Who are you?" Kick-Ass shouted into the darkness, his voice giving that trademark crack.

"You know who I am." Chris purred. He weighed the revolver in his hand and rubbed at against his thigh. He savored Kick-Ass' lost, wide-eyed expression. He could see it well through the mask- what a cleverly empathetic disguise it was- showing only the eyes and that luscious pink mouth bent in a frown. Showing only the parts that looked best when bleeding. Chris wondered what that mouth was capable of. His finger tightened on the gunmetal.

"Oh, there's so many… super heroes… I can't keep track of them…" Kick-Ass trailed off, disoriented. "Really, I…"

"Shut the fuck up!" Chris snapped. He rubbed at his forehead with the mouth of the revolver. Not the reaction he was expecting. Where was the heroic prowess? The demanding, virile attitude he witnessed on the YouTube videos, in the lumber shop during the fire, during that historic beating?

So he stepped out of the shadow, his cape doing that dramatic billowing thing that it did when he strode forward like that. Chris cocked a lopsided, cruel smile as he slipped off the grotesque black-and-orange mask. He lifted his silvery gun and pointed it at Kick-Ass at point-blank range. The bound superhero straightened, but moreso with recognition than reaction to the weapon.

"It's you," said the prisoner.

"Orange Menace." Christopher corrected him before he went to mutter that blasphemous name, _Red Mist_.

"Creative." Kick-Ass offered.

"I'll fucking shoot you dead right now."

That silenced the would-be vigilante, but only for a moment. Christopher was caught off-guard by the way Kick-Ass continued staring at him, mouth open and chest heaving up and down. Then Kick-Ass said: "So you want revenge?"

"I told you to shut up." Chris hissed. He lowered the gun. _Can't shoot him now. Too early. Need to enjoy this_.

Kick-Ass swallowed, lifted his chin defiantly. "Then what do you want?"

Naivety for sure. Christopher pulled out the clip in his gun and examined it in a shaft of street light coming in through a broken window. There wasn't an occupied building for miles in every direction. He snapped the clip back into place and whipped the gun across Kick-Ass' face. Blood spattered down his lip and he made the softest of guttural sounds. Christopher lifted his arm again and hit him once, twice more for good measure. His gasps echoed off the walls. The vinyl hugged Chris' groin again.

"I want you to fuckin'… suffer, for what you've done," The words rolled out just as Kick-Ass' tongue rolled against his lip and tasted the copper in his wound.

Fuck.

"Hit me as hard as you want," Kick-Ass breathed, defiantly.

_Ah, so there he was this whole time._


	3. Kiss Me, Kill Me

Chris kneed him in the gut. Then he cracked his knuckles and punched him squarely in the jaw, five, six, seven times. His prisoner hardly whispered. So he elbowed his ribs, smashed the gun across his skull. The other boy's body just curled, slightly. Could he even feel it? Could he feel anything?

Stupidly, without thinking, he put his hand on the boy's stomach. He felt the muscles there, tense from being assaulted. His hand dropped down and he cupped the other boy's crotch. Felt the flesh there, stirring. Only then did Kick-Ass let out a sound, in his boyish cracking voice, a choked-back groan that said, to Chris at least, _do that again_.

Suddenly Christopher was sweating. Stunned, rubbing his gloved thumb over the bulge in Kick-Ass' suit. The suit was skin-tight, practically non-existant. He didn't notice that he was pushing his own hard prick against Kick-Ass' leg, he didn't realize until it was too late that he had leaned in and licked a trail of blood from that exposed mouth, and that Kick-Ass was licking back.

And soon his whole body pushed back and their mouths slipped wetly over one-another's, their tongues tasting of copper and sweat and grabbing at the backs of their teeth. Chris could feel Kick-Ass' breath hitting the back of his throat, coming in panicked hot bursts. _What the fuck are you doing_, his mind raced. _You're KISSING him? You're supposed to be killing him. No, no. He's kissing you back. He's hard. You like this too much. You're such a slut, Christopher D'Amico_.

Kick-Ass' foot fit nicely in the space between his ribs and pelvis, formally called the gut, and Chris D'Amico went flying across the cement. After hitting the ground, he managed to collect enough of his braincells to recognize Kick-Ass pulling his wrists out from the cuffs, wielding a shiny silver pin—a long piercing hatpin—the kind that held Orange Menace's spiked wig onto his head. He must have snagged it while they were...

"..Making OUT? That's what you wanted to do to me? Make the fuck out?" Kick-Ass squealed, rubbed at his bloody mouth. Almost amused.

Chris was finally able to breathe. He coughed. "My fuckin' _hairpin_?"

"Dangerous to keep these things in your head, don't you think? I mean, shit, one might go ahead and, you know maybe, stab you in the brain." Kick-Ass said seriously, walking towards the fallen Orange Menace. Suddenly Christopher felt a shaky, cold shiver in his throat. It was fear. He reached for his revolver, but it had fallen out his hand during his flight from the wall to the floor. Instead, Kick-Ass snatched his hand up in his, and twisted it behind his head.

His bloody face shone at him, inches away: "Why do you want to kill me?"

There was almost a pleading, undeniable humanity in those blue eyes of his. Something about them was eerily familiar. Chris shook his head violently: "Let me go. Let me fucking go."

"NO." Kick-Ass shook the captured arm, then got a hold of the other one and crossed them neatly behind his head. "You fuckin' listen to me. I'm sorry about what I did. I'm SORRY. About your dad. OK? I'm sorry I killed your dad. I had to do it."

Christopher heard the words but they didn't penetrate his resolve, his bitter denial. Kick-Ass shook him a few more times, and he shouted out: "STOP IT."

"I'm fucking SORRY. My mom died too. I had to do it. I HAD TO!" Kick-Ass grunted, exasperated, and threw Christopher's arms back at him. His face shone almost sadly behind that teal mask, pale and specked with blood, mouth red. "If you want to kill me, I… I understand where you're coming from. But you shouldn't. You shouldn't do it."

Christopher stared at this smug motherfucker's legs. Then he muttered: "Why'd you kiss me back?"

Kick-Ass watched Christopher's eyes. They trailed to the edge of the silver revolver, half-eclipsed by a black shadow. But it was there, laying on the dirty floor. They both saw it. Kick-Ass answered, far away, matter-of-factly: "To distract you."

"You used to be my hero. Isn't that fucking stupid?" Christopher's voice was small.

Kick-Ass stiffened. He stared at the fallen villain, costumed vigilante, 18-year-old boy, whatever, in his leather suit, with his hair crooked, his lips smeared. With blood. His blood. His tongue twitched in his mouth.

Christopher rose to his knees slowly.

"So, fucking stupid." Chris wheezed a laugh, crawled on his hands and knees before him. His hand reached up and grabbed Kick-Ass by the knee. For support. To pull himself up. He came up from the ground like a viper. And as his coal-colored eyes met Kick-Ass' gaze, a little smirk curled on his mouth.

His hands pulled on the suit. Grabbed their way up him, climbing. Kick-Ass felt a lump forming in his throat. He went to push Christopher off him, grab the shoulders and push, away. They didn't give, instead they drew him to him, bodies colliding. Christopher's mouth groped along his collar bone, sending a searing hot sensation down his neck. Kick-Ass whispered: "_stop it…"_

Christopher's gloved fingers dragged along Kick-Ass' exposed, bruised lips. He felt the puff of heat against his fingertips. A brutal sesnation grabbed a hold of him. His eyes closed as the fist caught his chest, and he reached out instinctively to snatch Kick-Ass' hand, and forcefully placed it palm-down against his groin. Where it squeezed, and Kick-Ass' head dropped against his neck.

He held the hand there, bucked against it. Kick-Ass hid his face in his shoulder. Christopher breathed plaintively into his ear: "Stay."


	4. Villainous

He was doing some sort of slow, slithery dance against the other boy. He was too caught up in the strange action to sense the ridiculousness in it, but the salacious nature of the motion dragged friction from Kick-Ass' open palm against his prick. And he canted his mouth open to breathe a perverse curseword into the air, and without warning said something vulgar in its honesty…

_"…all I want to do is fucking possess you."_

When it came out, the words sounded like Hit-Girl's. But he didn't care. He shucked off one of his gloves with a sneering canine, slid the naked flesh of his bare hand down the slick wetsuit material of Kick-Ass' body, down to grab unapologetically at the bulge there. He was rewarded by a choked-back gasp against his collarbone, then those lips found his in a desperate confused way and he grabbed at the material at the back of Kick-Ass' head and the fabric slipped away like a veil.

He felt the explosion of supple curls against his face, rather than saw them. Eyes shut out the darkness, and he sank against the muscular frame that pinned him to the wall. The costume had a single zipper trailing the masculine spine. His dexterous fingers found the catch and slipped it down. Kick-Ass did the rest, shrugging his shoulders and arms out of the slick wetsuit, the material sliding hurried down the torso, all of this in heavy silence.

And Christopher D'Amico, like he had done it before, dozens, or hundreds of times (_you whore, _he thought to himself) parted his mouth around Kick-Ass' very exposed and very aroused cock.

He hadn't quite expected Kick-Ass' pelvis to bump into his face like that, sending the organ shooting down the back of his throat with an unapologetic fervor. But he liked the taste, and the strange sensation of gagging, and he felt himself blush violently as a hand came down into his maladjusted wig, against his ear and the side of his neck.

_He's making me do this_… he could barely breathe. His head spun.

He stayed, obedient and impossibly erect, with his head and back pinned to the wall as Kick-Ass took over his mouth. The other boy seemed slave to his whim, because he hung his kinky-haired head at a peculiar angle and watched with a devious fascination, half-amazed, half-destroyed.

Chris knew he was watching him, and gulped it down, and did terrible things with his tongue. The squeaking groan that erupted from Kick-Ass' lips incited his enthusiasm. He felt the fingers tightening in his hair, the scandalous hot fullness of his mouth being taken up by Kick-Ass' twitching cock. He drooled around it, shamelessly, brought it deeper down his throat.

Then Kick-Ass groaned "_fuck" _and the sour yet sweet burst of come exploded on his tongue.

He swallowed.

They stayed in this awkward composition for several moments; Kick-Ass almost fully disrobed, wild hair erupting from the skull, with his legs tangled up in between Orange Menace (who was fully dressed)'s arms on one side, and his subjected, blushing face on the other.

Christopher's unattended prick throbbed inside of his pants.

Kick-Ass detached himself with delicacy. In the darkness his zipper sounded and when Chris looked up, the mask had reclaimed that head of crazy curls. He had never even had a chance to look at the face it concealed. He had never thought to. It took a moment longer for him to realize that Kick-Ass, in addition to being fully clothed again, was now clutching that heinous weapon of his—the silver revolver scooped up from the floor and winking at him.

Kick-Ass pointed the barrel down at him. He, prone, kneeling. Christopher wiped the taste of Kick-Ass' seed from his lips. He stared at the gun, wondered if it would fire into him like a proverbial phallus. He felt used up, whorish, but inexplicably thrilled. If Kick-Ass were to shoot him dead at this moment, he'd gladly buck into the bullet.

"You gonna shoot me?" Chris looked up, asked quietly.

Kick-Ass stared at him behind his mask. "No."

Then the gun flew through the air once more. Chris captured it in his hands. By the time he had the barrel turned around, Kick-Ass was gone. There was something twisting in him in protest. It was his heart. _Oh, you villainous wet-suit superheroes..._


End file.
